


Teenage Phoenix

by Electra_Heart



Category: South Park
Genre: Eating Disorders, Eventual Fluff, F/M, Familial Abuse, M/M, creek - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-10 04:19:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7830217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Electra_Heart/pseuds/Electra_Heart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The harder Craig Tucker tries to avoid his past, the worse the present seems to become. All he wants is a little bit of control, a little bit of normalcy. To feel like he fits, that things are right and okay.<br/>But it seems the world is against him in every possible way that it can be. His friends and family won't stop prying, all his his secrets seem to be slipping slipping slipping through the cracks between his fingers...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tired

**Author's Note:**

> This fic deals with some pretty dark topics such as abuse, eating disorders, and family drama. If you feel like I'm not depicting these things accurately, PLEASE say something in the comments. I want this to be as real as possible.
> 
> For those of you struggling with eating disorders, I get it. I've had ED since I was twelve. Everyone's experience is different and I'm writing this based on my own.
> 
> This fic will be eventual creek :) feel free to tell me what needs fixing in the comments. I love to hear from you guys!

     He swipes at the spit around his mouth. It’s warm and wet and grisly. His heart is pounding, and vaguely he understands that the longer he sits here, on the unforgiving bathroom tile, the worse things will be. The air will get rank and his mom will get suspicious again. And if his mom gets suspicious, it’s all over. The idea of failing yet again makes his palms sweat profusely, and ah, there it is, the good old anxiety. Like an overused, threadbare coat. It’s tight on your arms and scruffy against your skin, but you just can’t bring yourself to shed it, because it keeps you warm during a frozen winter.  
     Craig reaches up and flushes the toilet, watching tonight’s guilt swirl down, down, down. Bits of soggy eggo waffle and licorice and chocolate cheerios and tortilla chips swim down the septic system until they’re gone.  
Wearily, he pulls himself up, fingers gripping the cool sink top. Unwittingly, he catches a glance of himself in the mirror, and like a moth to a lightbulb, he can’t look away.  
     His eyes are so red that it looks like he’s high as a kite. There’s a pink streak next to his mouth where he wiped at it too hard. His hair is black as the devil and it makes his stomach hurt just to look at himself, at this invariable, inescapable part of his appearance that makes it so clear that he does not even belong to his own family.  
     Ruby is perfectly ginger, like her father. His mother is cornsilk blonde with dark eyes. He’s just an ugly duckling. Dark as night and pale as day.  
     Automatically, as if part of a permanent process, he lifts his t-shirt.  
     A _fat_ ugly duckling.  
     Mildly and familiarly disgusted, he rinses the saliva off of his hands, scrubbing extra hard under his nail beds with the soap, raking his fingers into the bar until he feels a vague stinging sensation. He turns the water all the way hot, till it turns his hands red and angry. Then he dries off and takes a swig of mouthwash. It burns the back of his throat.  
He makes sure not to look at himself as he spits into the sink.

 

 

____________

 

 

     The next morning he wakes up to Ruby having a screaming match with their mother. Blearily, he looks to his left, where a tinny little alarm clock informs him that he has slept in. It shines an innocent, electric blue and Craig wants to smash it into the desk until it darkens and informs nothing at all.  
     He flops back into the embrace of his pillows and runs a hand through his hair. His head hurts like a bitch, and it’s the kind of headache you get after a night of partying, the killer kind that doesn’t even go away with extra strength aspirin. He isn’t surprised. He’s been waking up to a screeching head for the past three weeks. It’s a constant that has long since bothered him, and he’s past wishing it would go away.  
     He pushes aside his comforter and makes his way down the hall. His sister’s voice is louder now, and it appears she’s pissed because Mom won’t let her leave the house in that one pink skirt.  
     “-Because, young lady, you are not showing up to an intellectual institution wearing a piece of cheap cloth that barely covers your ass!”  
     “Well it’s my ass and I’ll do what I want with it!”  
     “You will do absolutely nothing until you turn 18 and no longer live under my roof. Until then, this is no longer up for discussion.”  
     As he peers over the stairs, he sees his dad grunt through his toast and black coffee in agreement. Mom is waving around a spatula angrily as they argue, and grease and egg fly here and there. Bacon is sizzling and popping in a pan on the stove and Craig feels a familiar tug of hunger in his abdomen. His mouth fills with wet.  
     In a panic, he hurrys to the bathroom to brush his teeth. The mint calms his appetite a little. He brushes again, scrutinizing his teeth as he does it, scrubbing until he’s satisfied that they aren’t turning grey and falling out anytime soon.  
     By the time he’s dressed and downstairs Ruby and Mom have stopped arguing, thank god. They’ve seemed to find peace over the bread and butter between them. Mom munches on it thoughtfully and Ruby sips at a coffee pale with cream. Dad has a meaty hand over the girth of his belly, the other scrolling through news feed on his little black samsung. His reading glasses are on, and they make him look like a cross between a librarian and santa because they’re oval shaped and always perch at the end of his nose.  
     Craig knows that in order to slip past his family, the next moment will be like a hundred yard dash. It has to be quick and calculated and perfectly executed or else everything will fall apart.  
     First, he has to manage to duck into the kitchen to get his things without being noticed. Then he has to inch away without being invited to sit down and eat. The idea of getting caught like a deer in the headlights, then being made to sit before a steaming plate of sunny-side ups and fatty, crispy, juicy bacon makes his head whirl.  
     Determined, he moves through the house like a cat, stealthy and silent. He shrugs into his winter jacket and jams his chullo hat over his ears, watching them from the door of the coat room. So far, they’ve been busy with their food and haven’t seen him. He laces up his boots and grabs his backpack, briskly shutting the front door behind him.  
     As he power-walks towards the bus station, he realizes he’s forgotten his gloves. The wind is bitter today, but there’s no way in hell he’s going back to get them. The more distance between him and that damned breakfast, the better. He shoves his hands in his pockets and continues towards the end of the curb.  
Standing in a huddle of puffy coats and pink cheeks are Stan Marsh and his friends. They’re listening to Kenny McCormick talk animatedly about something, though Craig isn’t close enough to hear what. They don’t bother acknowledging him and he likes it that way. Making small talk with people he isn’t friends with feels like a waste of time.  
     He turns to watch the schoolbus trundle up the street. It’s roof is covered in a thick blanket of white, and the windows are all frosted over, so he can’t really tell who’s already on board.  
     The bus screeches to a stop and it’s door swishes open, letting all the stuffy heat and chatter escape from inside. Craig steps on after Kyle Broflovski and is glad for the artificial heat. He keeps his head down as he goes to find an empty seat. Most of the neighborhood kids are already settled in, but he spots a space in the back and manages to slip into it as the bus jerks into movement.  
     He’s just begun watching Eric Cartman draw a penis into the condensation on the window, when he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket.  
     He pulls it out. Mom.  
     Against his better judgement, he presses ‘accept’, and then immediately wishes he hadn’t.  
     “Hi, Craigey, it’s Mom.”  
     “Hi, Mom. What is it?”  
     “Honey, you forgot to take breakfast on your way out, I didn’t even see you and I even made eggs. I know how much you love sunny side ups.”  
     Craig pauses as his mind grasps for an excuse.  
     “I thought I was late for the bus, but it turns out my alarm clock was fast and I was actually on time.”  
   “Oh. Well I sent a thermos of coffee and some toast with Ruby, okay honey? Make sure you get it from her before class starts.”  
     “Okay, I will.”  
     “Great, love you Craigey, see you later.”  
     “Okay, Mom. Bye.”  
     He hangs up before she can say anything else. Even though he doesn’t really mind when she calls him pet names, he still hates when other people hear. He looks around but it seems no one was listening in on his conversion.  
     He can’t believe his mom noticed he hadn’t eaten, but then again, what did he expect? She hadn’t seen him at the table, of course she would say something.  
     One thing he knows for sure is that he isn’t going to eat what she sent. Even though coffee is pretty low in calories, he has no idea how much sugar and milk she’s put in it. And bread is a BAD food, so that certainly has to go.  
At least Ruby isn’t on the same bus as him, so he doesn’t have to sit there and hold all that food and will himself not to eat it.  
Stuff like that is pure torture.

 

 

__________

 

 

  
     “Hey, Tweek, you want this?”  
     Tweek jumps in his seat as if being addressed is equivalent to being slapped across the face. He calms down a little when he realizes it’s just Craig, regarding him with slight annoyance, but he still twitches because, well, Tweek always twitches.  
     “W-What’s, What’s in it?”  
     “Coffee.”  
     “O-okay, thank you.”  
     Craig hands the thermos to him and turns back into his chair, watching kids trickle into class. A few minutes pass before Clyde Donovan drops himself into the seat to his left, just like always.  
     Clyde Donovan is to Craig what you might call a best friend by default. They have a mutual give and take relationship, meaning Clyde does all the talking and Craig does all the listening, and sometimes they play videogames in Token’s basement. But overall, they aren’t really that close. They sort of just work, in a situational way. Clyde is easy to tune out and doesn’t seem to mind that he’s being tuned out, as long as Craig nods every now and then.  
     Today Clyde launches into a story about a hilarious thing that Wendy Testaburger and Stan Marsh did together at a party. Craig isn’t really listening until Clyde reaches forward and shakes his shoulder a little.  
     “You okay, Craig? You look like shit.”  
     “Thanks.”  
    “No, I mean, you look really pale and stuff. More than usual."  
     Craig shrugs. “I didn’t really sleep much last night. I was up watching Netflix.”  
     This is a total lie, but luckily, Clyde is quite easy to lie to.  
     “Oh, I get it man. Anyway, so, like, Wendy starts putting barbeque sauce all over her titties, like, she’s totally wasted man. And Stan is just watching and he’s, like, smashed as well. I think they both forgot there was like a million people there or something. It was nuts, I mean, I’ve never seen them like this before. Stan does pretty dumb stuff when he’s drunk but, man, Wendy? She’s the most tightass person in this school. I’ve never seen her do shit like this. It was fucking hilarious.”  
     Craig chuckles but only because he heard Clyde say something about the story being hilarious. Really, his mind is on the thought that everything seems to be slipping lately. He’s getting more and more tired. People are noticing, even people as dense as Clyde. And he’s starting to wonder how much longer he can keep this up before it all falls apart the way it last did year. But he’s determined, and nothing will change that. He’ll just have to be a little less obvious.  
     His thoughts are interrupted by the teacher waltzing in, and thus begins trigonometry.  
Nothing gets him dozing quite like this class does. There must be something in the cadence of the mathematical terms, a secret, controlling lullaby. It has him drifting almost immediately.  
     Trig, as a subject, is the most difficult to endure out of all of his classes. Maybe because it's his first morning period, when he's most exhausted. Maybe it's because his seat is in the back, and he has to squint to see the board. Maybe it's the sheer mental energy of comprehending the lessons. Whatever the case, it's a sort of natural, placid hell.  
Craig shrugs out of his hoodie and balls it up into a makeshift pillow, resting his chin in his forearms as class begins.  
     His eyes begin to droop, heavy and drunk. The entirety of last night he was up online, playing bootleg indie games and losing track of time until the sun came up pale behind his curtains, and he decided that he could no longer evade sleep. His mind drift towards rpgs and the toast his mom made for him earlier. He had given it to Kenny McCormick in the hallway, and the poor bastard accepted it without question.

     Now lacking breakfast, Craig's stomach begins clawing pleasantly, begging for attention. The scraping sensation feels like all the bad, miserable things are being carved from his belly, preparing him for reformation like a teenage Phoenix.  
He falls asleep with the taste of this thought in his mouth.

 

 

____________

 

 

     The playing cards are spread on the kitchen table, set up neatly for a game of king's corner.      Craig doesn't know how to play it yet, his daddy promised that he would teach him.  
Seven cards are counted out with precision and Craig scoops them into his chubby toddler palm, fanning them out.  
     "Okay, boy. The aim of the game is to get rid of all your cards. The Kings go in the corners, and the other four cards go down in descending order and alternating colors. That means red goes on top of black and vice versa."  
     Craig nods, his mind scrambling to understand as his Daddy continues.  
     "Each round you pick up a card, and it's simple, you see?"  
     Craig humms a yes, his eyes searching over the table to look at the starting cards. His head barely reaches the surface, but he's able to look over the table's edge if he cranes his neck real far.  
     Daddy puts a black four on top of a red five, and just like that, the game begins.  
     Craig sort of understands, and as his father moves through a turn, the concepts start getting clearer. He realizes he actually has a pretty good hand, and he's excited to show his father that he could be good at something, that he could learn.  
     He moves forward to set his red three on top of the black four, and places it down proudly.  
     But when he looks at the cards, his red three has changed into a black nine. In fact, his entire hand has changed suits, numbers, and colors, completely different from how it was a minute ago. Baffled, he looks up at his father's impatient grey stare. The shame of making himself look so stupid blooms hotly through his chest. He opens his mouth to say he's made a mistake, but the words won't come out.  
     His father shakes his head and picks up a card for his turn, ignoring Craig's blight, though his eyebrow twitches and his mouth becomes a hard line.  
     As the game progresses Craig becomes increasingly panicked. Each time it's his turn to put something down, his cards morph into different ones right at the last second! At this point his father's agitation has shifted into a mild rage. His hands are drumming on the table as if to pace himself.  
     Craig moves forward to set down a card.     Craig's bottom lip quivers, and he prays to our lord Jesus in heaven that it will stay the way it is. So that his daddy can be proud of him.  
It changes from red to black, and it seems as if  Craig has gotten the game all wrong. That he's a big, stupid idiot. He can't even learn a dumb card game, for Pete's sake!  
His father slams down his cards. The table rattles like it has so many times before, holding itself together by some miracle. Craig flinches.  
     He watches his father push out of his chair with a grunt.  
   What a failure, a loser of a son! Can't even do a stupid card game right!  
     Daddy looms over him then. He looks gigantic, inhuman. This is familiar. This makes more sense than the patience and the effort.  
In his hand is a fan of cards and they're all black fours of clubs, somehow they're all black fours even though there aren't even that many black fours in a full deck.  
     He sees the hand sail through the air, and before feels the collision, he awakens with a start.  
     Bewildered and blurry-eyed, he takes in his surroundings. Students hunched over desks. Books, pencils, the endlessly ticking wall clock. Math class.  
     He glances to Clyde, who looks back as if he's already been watching him anyways. His eyes are lax with concern, and he raises a questioning eyebrow.  
     Craig just shakes his head, his face burning like the sidewalk in July. Had he been tossing and turning, restless in his sleep?  
     "Mr. Tucker, can you tell me what the hypotenuse of this triangle is?"  
     Caught of guard, Craig's eyes snap up to the front of the room.  
     Fuck.  
     His mouth gapes for a moment, fishing for an answer.  
     "Four," he blurts, entirely unsure of himself. A few kids snicker and the impulse to beat the shit out of them rises in him like a tide.  
     "That is incorrect," the teacher sighs. This scene is far from uncommon and she's tired of dealing with it. "Detention for sleeping in class, every day this week after school," she verdicts, her voice lacking anger. This is a common occurrence and not at all unexpected. It's sad, really, because she knows that Craig is a bright kid, and if he’d apply himself he'd pass her class easily. But he seems as if there's always something dark going through his head, that there's no room left for anything else.  
     Craig watches the teacher turn to the blackboard. He flips her off while her back is turned.  
     Clyde grins at him. Craig feels warm and triumphant. He grins back.

 


	2. Sixteen-something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It seems there's something off about Craig's origins....

  
     Detention time is not like regular time. Each detention minute is equal to around five regular minutes. More specifically, each second spent waiting for it to end feels like an entire lifetime.   
     As the minute hand on the clock above the whiteboard slides into five PM, Craig Tucker takes his seat. All the spaces in the back are filled, so he's forced to take a front and center spot.   
     Luckily, the supervisor is the secretary that does nothing but sit at her desk in the front office all day. Once in awhile she's required to answer the phone, and that's about as far as her job goes. Sometimes she eats candy, but she never puts it out for people to take.  
     Craig guesses it'll be about three minutes before she pulls out a romance novel and completely checks out. His eyes are already heavy with fatigue as she begins roll call.  
     "Craig Tucker?"  
     "Here," he mumbles as his name is called.  She crosses him out on her clipboard with a stubby, gnawed-up pencil.  
     "Tweek Tweak?"  
     "H-hi! I mean, uhm, here!"  
     Craig nearly does a 360 in his seat. He's never seen Tweek in detention before. The idea of Tweek getting into any sort of trouble is akin to the idea of a pig flying. It doesn't happen and it never will. Or at least it wasn't supposed to happen.  
     Tweek is the most timid, quiet wallflower Craig knows – besides himself, of course. He's the kid that holds the door open for teachers and brings them coffee. And it's not even because he's a kiss-ass. He's just plain _nice_.  
     As soon as the teacher isn't looking, Craig glances over his shoulder.   
     Tweek is hunched into his desk, looking positively miserable. He flinches as they make eye contact.   
     Craig raises an eyebrow and mouths _"what did you do?"_  
     Tweek just shakes his head, his mess of blond shifting back and forth. He checks to see if the supervisor is watching, then bends over and begins digging through his backpack.  
     Craig watches him silently, confused until Tweek pulls out a composition notebook and tears out a sheet of paper. He scrawls something down, crumples the note up, and sticks it in the hood of Craig's sweater.   
     Smiling wryly, Craig reaches back and unravels the note, smoothing out the creases with his fingers.  
    _"I don't want to talk about it. Anyways, it's not important. Did you hear about Clyde's dad though?"_  
     Confused, Craig responds with a flat " _no"_ and folds the paper up, handing it back to Tweek.  
     Tweek unfolds it and scribbles something down. He looks up to make sure that the supervisor is completely immersed in her novel before handing his response to Craig.  
 _"His dad's getting married. Clyde invited me to come to the wedding but I don't know!... I've never been to a wedding before and the food might be terrible and what if I hate it?"  
     "He invited you instead of Bebe???"  
     "Yeah, and you too, I think."_  
     Craig has no idea why Clyde would want Tweek to be at his dad's wedding and not Bebe, his girlfriend of three years. The entire thing is weird – Craig had no idea Clyde's dad was even seeing anybody, let alone engaged. Sure, Clyde had a rocky relationship with his dad and never talked to anybody about it... but still. _Shouldn't you tell your closest friends that your dad is engaged?_  
     Then again, Clyde never mentioned much about his home life. Clyde's mom had died before he and Craig had even met each other. Come to think of it, Clyde had never talked about his mom with him at all. Craig had found out from Token, who warned him vigorously never to mention anything about it to Clyde.  
     Sighing, Craig folds his arms and rests his forehead on the desk, feeling finished with raking over his thoughts.   
     The wood smells like Clorox and stale sweat.   
     He closes his eyes, thinking back to the last and only wedding he had ever attended.   
It was his auntie Laura's wedding. He was six years old, decked out in a dapper little wool suit and a bow tie that matched the color scheme (which was navy blue).   
     His mom was there but his dad hadn’t shown.   
He has a vague memory of Laura waltzing down the aisle in a huge organza gown. He remembered thinking it looked like a big silly cupcake.  
     But that was beside the point, Craig had barely even been paying attention to the _bride_.       _No_ , he was over at the buffet table, stuffing his face with sweets, hiding cocktail sandwiches in napkins and storing them in his pockets, shoving them down the front of his vest, and tucking them into his belt – anywhere he could conceal them.   
     He ate so much that night that he had puked all over his cousin Rebbeca’s pretty pink flower girl dress. It hadn’t even bothered hima single bit. He just kept eating and eating and eating some more, and that was because he knew that the chance of getting fed the coming week, hell, the coming month, was slim at best.   
    Disgusted with himself, Craig falls asleep with the memory of chocolate wedding cake in his mouth, feeling sick with the little-kid Craig that constantly plagues his memories.

___________

  
     When detention is over, Tweek debates shaking Craig's shoulder until he wakes up, but he doesn't have the heart to do it.   
     Craig looks so peaceful when he's asleep, almost happy. There's a thin line of drool running from his parted mouth. The wet darkens a little patch of his sweater, right at the bend of his elbow, where his chin is resting.  
     Tweek pokes Craig's shoulder nervously, drawing his hand back as if he'd just touched an angered snake.   
     "C-Craig...?”  
     When nothing happens, Tweek tries again. He leans forward, real close to Craig's face, to make sure he's still breathing, since it's starting to seem like Craig might be in a coma of some kind. Or maybe even _dead_.  
      _Oh god, that would be terrible!_  
     Luckily, Craig is very much alive. His eyes draw open, filling Tweek's vision with sleepy, dazed blue.   
     "Agh! Uhm, detention just ended," Tweek informs him.  
     Craig stands up and yawns, stretching his arms to the ceiling. His sweater lifts a little and Tweek can see the waistband of his briefs.   
     "Thanks for waking me up, man," Craig smiles lazily.  
     "N-no problem. You need a ride home?"  
     Craig shakes his head, sending the tassels of his hat swishing around his face. "That's fine, I like the walk home."  
     Something flashes across Tweek's face that looks like it might be disappointment, but then Tweek shrugs, and it's gone.  
     "Okay, well, s-see ya around," he says.  
     Craig stands there, watching him go. The only clear thought in his sleep-fogged mind is how many calories the walk home from school might burn. 

  
_____________

 

  
     Craig's thumbs juggle with texting Clyde and playing video games on his old Xbox 360. The game he's playing tonight is a horror classic, the third installment in the Silent Hill series. He's battling the shit out of some nurses as the lovely Heather, playing with intense focus when his phone buzzes. He pauses (and saves for good measure), then grabs his android and clicks the lock screen open.  
     Surprisingly, it's a message from Token.     Unsurprisingly, it's a party invite, modestly disguised as a “kickback”.  
     Craig bites at the cuticle of his thumb while he debates what his answer will be.   
     In the past, he'd attend every party he was invited to, even if it wasn't at Token's (and therefore, was lame).  
   These days, though, he doesn't have the energy for dumb parties.   
     The screen of his TV is bright and attractive, with promises of nothing but comforting virtual slaughter.   
     He's about to reply with a no when he sees that Token has sent another message.  
      _"I actually got Tweek to come for once. You should be there to help him out. U know how he is."_  
     Craig _does_ know how he is. He searches his memory for the last time he and Tweek were even at the same party.   
     It was Clyde's third grade birthday party. There was a bounce house shaped like a football and cupcakes with rainbow frosting. Tweek was the only kid who didn't enjoy the inside of the giant inflatable football, out of fear that it would spontaneously pop and crush everyone inside. It was a grisly possibility and Tweek wasn't going to take the chance – until Stan Marsh convinced him to try it.  
     Kyle Broflovski had been shoved against Tweek within the confines of the bounce house, and as a result, Tweek had been shoved into Eric Cartman, who had been shoved into the netting. Cartman had rebounded against the springiness and before anyone could prevent it from happening, he and Tweek were sprawled and crying on the jolly inflatable floor.   
     Cartman was fine, but Tweek had been pinned underneath him. The next day at school he sported a thick green cast. He had broken his arm in three places.  
     Ever since then, it had been no mystery that Tweek never attended anything labeled more than a get-together. Clyde had tried to convince him many times to show up to his football game after parties, but Tweek unwaveringly refused with each attempt.   
     To hear that Tweek was actually going to attend at Token's house tonight made Craig's eyes bug out with disbelief.   
     He re-read the text four times, then texted back his surprise with a slew of exclamation points and question marks.  
     His phone vibrated not even a second later with Token's reply.  
 _“Yeah man you should come.”_  
     Attached was a photo of Tweek, perched on the edge of Token's living room sofa with a  terrified look in his hazel eyes.  
     Holding back laughter, Craig tells Token he'll come over, if not just to witness this, and clicks his phone off. He leans back into the couch, realizing belatedly that he has damned himself to a night of socialization and temptingly delicious, evilly fattening party food.

 

  
___________

 

  
     Craig rings the doorbell with a profound lack of enthusiasm, then stands back and waits. He can hear raucous laughter coming from inside, and something crashing to the ground, followed by more laughter.   
     Token catches him off guard by practically ripping the door open in front of him. Craig can see that Token's already quite tipsy. From the sound of it, it seems everybody inside is tipsy too.   
     "Craig! Come inside!" Token cheers, clapping Craig warmly on the shoulder and dragging him through the threshold.   
     Seated in the great room, on the most plush sofa in the entirety of southern Colorado, are a handful of Token's closest friends.   
Bebe is tucked under Clyde's arm, her hand on his knee (no surprise there). To their left is Jimmy Valmer, telling a joke to Wendy Testaburger and Stan, who are drunk enough to find it funny.   
     And sure enough, Tweek is among them. He's sitting with his elbows rested on his knees and his head in his hands, a little bit further away from the others.  
     Craig sits down next to him and chuckles to himself as Tweek lets out a startled yelp.  
     "I can't believe you actually showed up, Tweek."  
     Tweek shrugs and slouches a little.   
     "Token convinced me," he mumbles, and leaves it at that.  
     "Well I guess Token convinced me too. I was at home playing xbox when he invited me here," Craig sighs. Tweek gives him a small smile and opens his mouth to say something, but he's cut off as Bebe shouts over him and waves them over.  
     "Tweek, Craig, come here! Clyde came up with a _such_ brilliant idea," she grins, pausing for dramatic effect.   
     "We're going to play _strip poker!_ "   
     Stan and Clyde high-five each other knowingly. Wendy looks pissed at the suggestion, but the more she sips from the Smirnoff Ice in her hand, the less she seems to care.   
     Craig exchanges a scared look with Tweek, but it's clear they don't have any say in the matter. They're playing, and this is not up for discussion.  
     Bebe takes Craig’s hand and yanks him towards the carpet, where everyone else has begun to form a makeshift circle. Wendy sits herself to his left, and Jimmy settles down to his right, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.     Craig rolls his eyes and looks across from him, where Tweek is seated.  
     He can see the physical evidence of the tremors running up and down Tweek’s arms – but this is not unusual, and that's because everything and anything makes Tweek Tweak nervous.  
     But not everything makes _Craig_ nervous. Very few things seem to faze him in life – but _this_ – _this_ is one of them.  
Feeling dizzy, Craig stands up and brushes off his jeans, mumbling something about needing a drink before fleeing to the kitchen.  
     When he gets there, he flings open the fridge, surveying the wide selection of poisons that the Black family constantly replenishes. He grabs a Heineken light because it he knows it has the fewest calories. There's a magnetic bottle-opener shaped like the state of Texas on the fridge. Craig cracks the top off of his drink and takes a healthy swig.   
     It does nothing to calm him.   
     Craig draws a shaky breath and takes another sip. The liquor sloshes pleasantly in his stomach, and it makes his throat warm.  
     Just a little more and he can forget about the jagged, pale line that runs from his ribs to his bellybutton. Just a little more and maybe he can forget about the sixteen-something cigarette burns that dot his chest, his hips, his shoulders.   
     Craig grabs the entire six-pack and heads back to the living room.   
     Just a little more booze for everyone else to forget about it too, just enough for anyone to hardly register the physical memories that dance across his body like a map.   
     Craig discards his empty beer bottle and treats himself to another, because he doesn't just _deserve_ it – he _needs_ it.


End file.
